


Of Warmth and Jazz

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: But whatever, Could be any Doctor really, Fluff, Multi, Second Person, but written with twelve in mind, doctor/you is more familial than romantic, open for interpretation, short but sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:56:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7816921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The mug is warm against the pads of your fingers, a soft caress against the palm of your hands, a gentle sweep up your forearms, a brush against your chest. The settle of content in your stomach. You inhale. You smell cinnamon, spices, coffee. You wonder if he feels it too.'</p><p>Your life is fast paced, but you find it's the slow moments that are the best ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Warmth and Jazz

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is just a sort exploration into second person, because I've never done it before. The cafe/Inn is based on this lovely Inn in St Govan's, Pembrokshire (which is in Wales (the UK)) but this fic is mostly, and loosely, based on the time I spent in New York two years previous, and the winter I spent in Switzerland, both times with some very good friends of mine. I got all nostalgic while writing this! For the full experience, listen to some soft jazz. 
> 
> Anyways, as always,  
> Enjoy!

Soft jazz. Lazy piano, saxophone, double bass and drums. It mingles with the crackling of wood in the hearth. The wind outside is bitter and harsh, the cold night fast approaching. You pay it no attention. This is your refuge. Your sanctuary. 

The china, white and handmade, sits comfortably in your hands. The mug is warm against the pads of your fingers, a soft caress against the palm of your hands, a gentle sweep up your forearms, a brush against your chest. The settle of content in your stomach. You inhale. You smell cinnamon, spices, coffee. 

You have time, you think. Plenty of it. You lean back into the cushioned chair on an exhale. The mug rests against your teeth when it meets your lips. The hot liquid warms you, drifting under your skin from your centre to the tips of your fingers. The sleeves of your jumper, thick and well-worn, brush against your knuckles. Your watch sits on your wrist, a familiar weight. The fabric of your jeans bunches slightly at your knees, where one leg is curled up, tucked neatly beneath you. The other, bent up as far as you're able, serves as a perch for your mug. The warmth seeps through the dark denim and into the aching joint beneath it. Your socked feet soak in the warmth from the fire. Thawing boots sit on the rustic, wooden flooring. Some lingering snow falls onto the panels, the melting ice seeping into the woodwork. 

A blanket, wool and heavy, is draped over your shoulders. 

You look up, smile at the man who put it there. He smiles back, sits in his own chair, opposite you. His features are softened by the firelight, his eyes still as ancient but no less warm. He nurses his mug, an eggshell white, in his left hand. You let the music seep into your soul. It sways, lazily, unhurried and unconcerned, and you do too. Like this, you can forget almost everything except the music that ebbs and flows through your veins. 

He offers you a small smile, affectionate and fatherly. His eyes shine in the firelight, specks of gold dancing in the slate-grey you've grown to love. His long, lithe fingers tap out a beat, his ring clinking on the china. It flashes with each tap, and you become almost transfixed by its rhythmic movements.

You wonder if he feels it too. The warmth of the mug against the pads of his calloused fingers, the content settled in his stomach. The universe may be vast and infinite, but you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Don't forget to drop a comment to tell me what you guys think! (Because I have no idea about what I'm doing)


End file.
